


Forged

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Character Study, Gen, all in all not a very pleasant time in Bucky's life, from Bucky to Winter Soldier, post-train fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: "Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038… Steve…"His skin itches, stings, his blood boils with every shot that pierces him. It’s not right. He is- his arm is gone and everything hurts and the world is nothing but pain and every shadow above him is SteveSteveSteve. He pleads and begs and cries and it's as if his voice is nothing, as if he is trapped in a vacuum, screaming himself hoarse into nothingness while faceless people take him apart and-"Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038… Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038-"
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	Forged

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t expect to get so into this idea when it hit me last weekend, nor did I expect to actually finish it. I’m not sure I’m really off my writer’s block, but I’m sharing this and we’ll see where we land. Hope you guys will enjoy it.
> 
> Even if it is angsty. Very, very angsty.

"Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038… Steve…" 

Steve, where are you? Please, Steve Steve Steve- _dear saint Steven- you gave your life unafraid-_ Steve, I’m so afraid, I can’t-

His skin itches, stings, his blood boils with every shot that pierces him. It’s not right. He is- his arm is gone and everything hurts and the world is nothing but pain and every shadow above him is SteveSteveSteve. He pleads and begs and cries and it's as if his voice is nothing, as if he is trapped in a vacuum, screaming himself hoarse into nothingness while faceless people take him apart and-

"Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038… Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038-"

"Sergeant Barnes."

No.

No, no, no.

A face above him, round and mild as milk but the voice is chilling and he wants to cringe away. Zola, a smile like he is pleased and he looks at him like a thing-not-human, calculating, a hand on his cheek that burns like a branding iron. His tongue lies thick in his mouth, but he pleads, he begs, he doesn’t even know if words come out. He wants to slap the hand away, but his arm is- Stop, stop, stop, please, stop-

“The procedure has already started.”

Fire in his veins, his voice gives out as the pain mounts, the voice echoes in his head and he can’t- Steve, where are you, Steve, I’m waiting, Steve, he’s killing me-

“Soldier.”

No, he is not a soldier, he is not he is not he is not. Faceless people around him, cutting and poking and he wants them to stop, wants them to stop touching him, and he lashes out. He-

There is sensation. Pressure, dull and he cannot process. A silver arm, dexterous fingers wrapped around a throat, slowly squeezing. He cannot feel it, but he knows that underneath those fingers there is a pulse running wild. Release. Recoil. Nononono. Zola, smiling, a hand wiping at his brow like he was a sick child and why can’t he move, why can’t he just disappear?

“Good work, soldier. So much progress already, you have exceeded every expectation I had. Soldier, listen-”

He doesn’t want to, he is- He is not a soldier, was never a soldier, he was just a- He just wanted- Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038. He is not a soldier.

“You are to be the new fist of HYDRA. You will do great work for us, soldier. You were injured. We just need you to get well again.”

“Sergeant… James… Barnes…” Rank. Name.

Zola looks at him like he is a disappointment.

Serial number. “...32557038. Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038…”

He can do this, he did it before. It hurts and it hurt and it hurts but he can do it. Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038, he can do it, Steve will come, Steve found him, Steve never stopped looking. _Bucky._ _Til the end of the line._ He'll hear his name again, spoken in that voice he has known for so many years and he’ll be saved and he’ll run and run and run until nothing and no one can find him again. He waits and waits, repeating and screaming and pleading. _Steve-_ Sergeant James Barnes, 32550738. He'll hear his name, the pain will go away. _Til the end of the line._ Sergeant James Barnes 32550738 Sergeant James Barnes 32550738 Sergeant James-

_Saint James, I call on you, patron saint of dying people, it hurts so goddamn fucking much please grant me the mercy of death. Saint James, from whom I get my name, patron saint of pharmacists at least give me something to numb the pain. Saint James-_

He is barely able to stand when they haul him off the gurney, a ragdoll, a clipped marionette for them, whispers and whimpers. Rank. Name. Serial number. He has been holding on for so long. Is he even human anymore? His left arm is not his own anymore, forced on him, violent, cold and deadly. His blood must be drained by now, something sinister now running in his veins that burns and carves at him.

"Soldier."

Not a soldier, he wants to say. Sergeant. 

Sergeant.

Sergeant Barnes.

The procedure has already begun

No, no, no. Someone- someone is coming for him. He just- Sergeant Barnes. James Barnes. Something else, too. Numbers. 32. 55. 7-

"Soldier?"

Zola's voice commands his attention. But only because he is wrong. Not a soldier.

"Sergeant. James… Barnes… 32… 55… 7-"

The rest is irrelevant. His voice is hushed, a husky rasp, almost ground out of him. Zola. Zola shakes his head, his voice is cold, void of all emotion.

"He is not coming for you. No one is. No one. We found you, Soldier. You were lost, but you're home now."

It's not right. No, no, it's- Lost, he is hopelessly lost. _Oh, holy Saint Jude, apostle and martyr. I don't even really believe, so I'm as hopeless as they come, but no one, no man or beast should have to endure this. Saint Jude, I don't pretend to be good, not like… like…_ He is lost, he has to hold on. Sergeant. Soldier. No, wait. Sergeant B-

Zola frowns, scratches something across a clipboard, mouth pulled into a thin line.

"Put him on ice."

The last he sees before a bite that is both fire and ice, is his own reflection in the small glass window. A face, gaunt, hair grown with wispy tendrils plastered this his cheeks and forehead. Him, a ghost of him. He reaches out with the arm-not-his to touch the ghost and the glass frosts over.

There’s a man, tall, and for a second, he thinks, he hopes, he wishes it is Steve, so elated to remember him he almost manages a smile. Steve. Steve coming again to rescue him, and he swears on all things holy, on every saint he ever heard Steve and Sarah Rogers pray to, on everything good and genuine in his life, that he will take that damn honorable discharge and he’ll go home, and he’ll be good and-

“Soldat.”

No.

S-

"Soldat, listen to me."

He is so tired. Til the end of the-

"Soldat, cлушай меня. Relax. Слушай мой голос."

So tired. His bones still ache from the cold. Where is he? The man is… wrong. He talks, talks, soothing voice, pushing aside discomfort, sweeping aside that small voice in the back of his head that buzzes with a litany that's…

"Good, soldat, that's it. Tы уже дома."

He doesn't understand much, the words fleeting by in English and in a language so soft it wraps around him like a cloud. He can listen. It's been so long. He can follow orders. Like-

"Soldat."

The man smiles. The soldier waits. Orders are given, simple enough. He can follow orders. Run. Fight. Shoot. He is good. He is given a target, it's-

A young boy, bruise blooming across his face.

"Cтреляй! Soldat!"

He is- The hand wavers. But the boy-

_Bucky?_

The hand wavers and the head tilts. It's just a boy. Injured. He has to- He is- Someone. Soldier. Not right. Sergeant. Sergeant-

"Soldat!"

The shot rings out over his right shoulder, deafening. The boy is dead before he hits the floor. It's- He is not-

Pain sears through him, electricity tripping along his nerves, blinding, sends him kneeling. No, no, he is not- Sergeant.

The tall man returns. He is strapped into a chair, voice like honey unable to quite soothe him as a contraption is strapped to his head. He can almost feel the electricity spark against his skin. What will they do?

"Soldat… Cлушай меня. Мы всё исправим."

Fix him? 

How does he understand, it's- The machine whirs, a sinister sound. He strains against the metal holding him down. Wrong. No soldier. His name is- He is- _Saint James, grant me death, Saint James from whom I get my-_ not my name, I'm-

"Cлушай меня."

I'm B-

Pain. Lightning behind his eyes. Words echoing, swelling in the emptiness left behind.

"Желание. Ржавый. Семнадцать..."

He is empty. He is ready. He takes his orders, takes his gear. He falls in line.

He is a soldier.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translations (which I hope I didn't entirely butcher):
> 
> cлушай меня. (listen to me)
> 
> Слушай мой голос. (Listen to my voice)
> 
> Tы уже дома. (You are home)
> 
> Cтреляй! (Shoot!)
> 
> Cлушай меня. Мы всё исправим. (Listen to me. We will fix everything.)


End file.
